


Consolation

by artemisscribe



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotp, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisscribe/pseuds/artemisscribe
Summary: It’s conventional in Oxford colleges to keep one’s door unlocked. The suggestion that the company of one’s fellow scholars is to be avoided, or that there was anything in one’s room that they could not be trusted with were both distasteful in the extreme. But when John wakes to the sound of someone stumbling into his room at two in the morning he thinks convention can go hang if it would mean him getting a decent night’s sleep for once in his life.





	

It’s conventional in Oxford colleges to keep one’s door unlocked. The suggestion that the company of one’s fellow scholars is to be avoided, or that there was anything in one’s room that they could not be trusted with were both distasteful in the extreme. But when John wakes to the sound of someone stumbling into his room at two in the morning he thinks convention can go hang if it would mean him getting a decent night’s sleep for once in his life.

Forcing himself awake, he sits up and flicks on his bedside lamp, blinking in the harshness of the yellow light at the sight of Lady Penelope standing in his doorway.  
“No Penny,” he says as he tries to wipe the sleep from his eyes, “Your room is on the _next_ staircase.”  
“I don’t want to be in my room.”

If he hadn’t been asleep he’d have noticed her distress sooner, as it is, it takes until he hears her voice so uncharacteristically small and sad to make him properly pay attention to her. Penelope’s make-up is far too expensive to run but her under her still perfect mascara and foundation she’s red-eyed and pink cheeked from tears. It’s so wrong, so unnatural to see her upset, for her to be anything but perfectly poised that his heart leaps into his throat with the same urgency that he scrambles out of his bed to go to her, taking her gently by the shoulders as he stoops down to get a proper look at her.

“Pen, what’s wrong? What happened?” he asks, searching for some sign of illness or injury.  
She lets out a single strained sob and he gives up on caution and folds her in against his chest, hugging her close, one hand stroking her hair to try and sooth her,  
“Oh Penelope don’t cry” he says softly as she weeps against his shoulder, a damp patch growing across his t-shirt.

There are about twenty books and two days worth of washing on his desk chair so he guides her to sit on the bed and settles himself kneeling in front of her,  
“Penny what happened?” he asks again as he rummages through his bedside table looking for a pack of tissues.  
“Oh God I’m so stupid,” Penny groans, dropping her head into her hands, “Everybody thinks I’ve got it together but I’m just a stupid little girl.”  
“Hey now!” John stops her, slipping into his big brother voice, “You are not stupid. You’re the least stupid person I know.”  
Penny looks up at him with watery eyes,  
“The _least stupid_?” she asks incredulous,  
“See,” he says with a coaxing smile, “You’re drunk and upset and you’re still correcting my grammar.”  
She smiles weakly,  
“It’s not incorrect as such,” she sniffs, “Just a tad informal.”  
“Says the woman crying in my bed at two in the morning” he notes ruefully.  
“Point taken” Penny concedes.

“So,” John says, sitting back on his heels, “Do you want to talk about it?”  
“I-“ Penny starts, but it’s a little too much for her right now, she can feel herself starting to well up again, “No... I mean you think you know a person and then they- no. No... I just wanted a hug. I should go.”  
She goes to stand up but John, sober, taller, and stronger is up first to put a firm hand on her shoulder and keep her where she is,  
“Oh no way!” he says firmly, “What kind of friend would I be letting you be on your own like this? You’re staying right here.”

She’s grateful for that really, the events of the night are catching up with her, and as she watches him cross to his dresser to fish out a set of pyjamas for her she can already feel her eyelids growing heavy. Her head is nodding as he gently bullies her into kicking off her shoes and making her change out of her dress while he fetches her a glass of water,  
“Drink it, drink it all.”  
“Can’t I have a cup of tea?” she yawns,  
“You’re not going to be awake long enough to drink a cup of tea” he replies, and she has to admit that he has a point.

What does pull her from the edge of sleep is the sound of a zipper and she opens her eyes to the sight of John rummaging through her handbag.  
“Hey!” she cries, “Don’t you know it’s rude to go through a lady’s bag?”   
“Oh shush!” he fires back, smiling fondly as he pulls out the pack of make-up wipes he knows she always has on her, “Aren’t you always telling me you’re not a real lady?”  
“It’s ungentlemanly,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as he tilts her chin upwards to better be able to wipe her face for her,  
“And it’s unladylike to get foundation all over a gentleman’s pillows, _again_ , might I add.”  
She attempts to grumble some kind of defence to that but she’s just too tired.

Face washed, water drunk, she curls herself up in John’s bed as he carefully folds himself in around her, tucking her up underneath his chin, one arm under her head, the other wrapped protectively around her,  
“’m sorry” she mumbles as she burrows down against his chest,  
“Don’t be,” he tells her, stroking her hair, “It’s flattering that you trust me enough for this.”  
“I’ll buy you breakfast,” she insists, “to make up for it.”  
“Damn right you will!” he laughs and Penny basks in the pleasantness of the sound,  
“I’m glad you’re my friend,” she murmurs, throwing every last effort into fighting sleep off just long enough to say it.   
She isn’t awake long enough to hear his reply,  
“Yeah, me too.”


End file.
